The first night of this year’s ever-bankable Here And Now tour saw the Trent FM Arena transformed into one giant Reflex bar, as seven chart acts from the 1980s wheeled out their old hits and several thousand eager thirty- and forty-somethings turned back the clock with them. This time around, the focus was on the latter part of the decade, and particularly the years 1987 and 1988: an era when yuppies ruled the roost, Gary Davies and Bruno Brookes ruled the airwaves, and "club culture" still meant wearing a shirt and tie to get into Ritzys. If you were at the right age to be buying Smash Hits and watching The Chart Show, then this was the show for you. Any older or any younger, and you might have found yourself muttering that old cliché: nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.

Hands up, who remembers Cutting Crew? With only two hits to their name (and only two members left in their line-up), the duo were on and off the stage in the blink of an eye. This was a shame, as Nick Van Eede turned in on of the best vocal performances of the night, backed by some appealingly flashy soft-rock soloing from guitarist Gareth Moulton.

Johnny Hates Jazz fared slightly better, being permitted to perform three of their four hits, in what was announced as only their second ever live appearance in the UK. Opening with the anti-war song I Don’t Want To Be A Hero, they provided the night’s one brief nod to "social commentary" -- an element that was key to much of the decade’s most memorable music. The band’s trademark slick suits were back, but sadly not their original vocalist Clark Datchler. New vocalist Danny Saxon gave a passable imitation, but his somewhat puny delivery failed to ignite the arena crowd.

Anyone expecting to see the full original line-up of Curiosity Killed The Cat was in for a disappointment, as singer Ben Volpeliere-Pierrot shambled onto the stage accompanied by, er, nobody. According to Ben (whose unique line in stage patter is best described as "eccentric"), the other three members "said Hi" and "sent their love". Hands up, who believed him? As Ben diddled aimlessly around the stage, drifting in and out of key, and looking thoroughly out of his depth, it was enough to make you feel nostalgic for Cutting Crew.

With the evening in danger of floundering in a half-baked stew of half-remembered mediocrity, it was time for a seasoned professional and a proper star to rescue the proceedings. On that score, ABC’s Martin Fry delivered in spades. A veteran of the nostalgia tour circuit, he knew what was expected of him, and he knew how to pitch it to perfection. As the opening chords of Poison Arrow rang out, the whole night stepped up a notch, the crowd rising to their feet and bellowing along with some of the sharpest pop lyrics ever written. If Ben from Curiosity was the random youth trying to chat you up at the bus stop, Martin from ABC was the smooth gigolo, sweeping you off your feet in the cocktail bar.

Boasting a similar veteran’s pedigree, Paul Young gave an equally arena-friendly performance, hurling his mike stand around the shop in best Rod Stewart style. Although numbers such as Love Of The Common People suffered from the absence of female backing singers (hands up, who remembers the Fabulous Wealthy Tarts?), and although Young struggled with his upper register on Come Back And Stay and Senza Una Donna, a terrific extended performance of I’m Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down turned out to be the night’s unexpected musical highlight. In particular, it allowed the six-piece house band to demonstrate what they were made of. On stage for the full three hours, during which they trawled through thirty-seven songs and a myriad of musical styles, the band were the unsung heroes of the night.

As the acts got bigger, the sets grew longer. Bananarama managed nine songs in thirty-five minutes, spanning seven of their most successful hit-making years. With founder member Siobhan and substitute member Jacquie long gone, Keren and Sara have been performing as a duo since the early 1990s, cranking out their roster of camp classics with a delightful disregard for stage-school slickness (they still have trouble remembering the set list) and sophisticated vocal technique (you’ll still search in vain for a harmony line). That said, the set was tightly and ably choreographed, the girls being joined on stage by a pair of humpy male backing dancers.

And finally, and to a hero’s welcome: Rick Astley, making his debut on the nostalgia circuit, and cheerfully admitting to finding the whole experience overwhelming and bizarre. Now re-established in the nation’s affections thanks to an Internet phenomenon known as "rickrolling", Astley surfed a tide of goodwill from the crowd, which was almost enough to cover his lack of memorable hit singles. (Hands up, who can name more than three of them?) Admittedly, it all got a bit Cruise Ship during his syrupy cover of When I Fall In Love, and even Rick himself seemed less than enamoured of some of the later Stock Aitken Waterman hits (he could barely wait to get to the end of the frankly rubbish Take Me To Your Heart, exclaiming "will this madness never end?" during the final chorus). However, all was forgiven in time for the grand finale, and the only chart-topping song of the whole night: the immortal Never Gonna Give You Up, which duly raised the roof and sent the crowd home happy.

Set list:

Cutting Crew: I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight, I’ve Been In Love Before.

Johnny Hates Jazz: I Don’t Want To Be A Hero, Turn Back The Clock, Shattered Dreams.

Curiosity Killed The Cat: Down To Earth, Misfit, Ordinary Day, Name And Number, Hang On In There Baby.

ABC: Poison Arrow, Tears Are Not Enough, All Of My Heart, When Smokey Sings, The Look Of Love.

Paul Young: Love Of The Common People, Come Back And Stay, Senza Una Donna, I’m Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down, Every Time You Go Away.

Bananarama: Cruel Summer, Really Saying Something, Robert De Niro’s Waiting, I Heard A Rumour, Nathan Jones, I Want You Back, Love In The First Degree, Venus, Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye).

Rick Astley: Together Forever, She Wants To Dance With Me, Hold Me In Your Arms, When I Fall In Love, Take Me To Your Heart, Cry For Help, Whenever You Need Somebody, Never Gonna Give You Up.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Seth Lakeman likes the Rescue Rooms, and with good reason. One of his first gigs was at the venue, and its warmth and intimacy have always suited him well. However, times and circumstances change.

Three years after his breakthrough nomination at the Mercury Music Prize, and less than two years after his Freedom Fields album cracked the Top Forty, Seth has reached a level of popular success which no other young English folk artist has reached since the days of Steeleye Span, over thirty years ago. Quite simply, he has outgrown the venue, which by his own admission resembled a “sweat pit” last night.

There’s nothing wrong with sweat pits, of course: but for all the muscular, percussive energy on display, something vital was lost along the way. Lakeman’s songs are mostly centred around stories, and successful story-telling requires a certain degree of calm, focussed concentration – particularly when, in the case of the selections from the forthcoming album Poor Man’s Heaven, the stories haven’t been heard before.

Without that direct, personal connection between artist and audience, the newer material fell somewhat flat. Seth is an able guitar player and a more than nifty fiddle player – indeed, the solo voice-and-fiddle pieces went down better than anything else – but he is no virtuoso either, and so his performance fell rather between two stools.

Nevertheless, it was still a delight to witness further evidence of English folk’s unexpected and wholly deserved revival – and on St George’s Day itself, what could have been more appropriate?

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

The Breeders are not a band to be rushed. Released at the beginning of this week, Mountain Battles is only their fourth album in eighteen years. It’s a murky, low-fi, subdued affair, whose understated charm sneaks up on you from behind. Unlike 1993’s breakthrough album Last Splash, it won’t be going internationally platinum any time soon. These days, that’s hardly the point.

As on record, so they were on stage: unhurried, slightly shambling, not making a big deal out of themselves. An amiable goofiness, which masked a calm, clear sense of purpose.

Leading the band as always, but resisting the centre stage limelight, a broadly beaming Kim Deal set the mood of the whole show. “When are you going to marry me?” shouted one fan. “No warrants, a licence and a job, that’s all I ask”, she batted back, with an earthy cackle.

Her addictions long since conquered, Kim’s sister Kelley looked weather-beaten yet gamine, her singing voice as sweet as ever. Later this year, she’ll be publishing a book of knitting patterns: “Bags That Rock: Knitting on the Road”. How times change.

Trent Uni’s student union building is a sadly underused venue, whose superb acoustic played to the band’s strengths. The slower material from Mountain Battles resonated and captivated, while old favourites like Divine Hammer and the classic Cannonball retained a box-fresh sparkle.

Like Kim’s former band The Pixies, you can never quite pin down what makes The Breeders so special. You just instinctively know that they’re a class act.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Witnessing first-hand the squeals of female delight which greeted his every move, I suddenly realised that John Barrowman might be something unique: an openly gay heartthrob, whose unequivocal frankness merely adds to his appeal. If that sounds like a contradiction, then it’s certainly not one which bothered either the artist or his adoring audience, whose tangible rapport was wonderful to behold.

Drawing on his long experience in musical theatre, Barrowman delivered a highly accomplished performance, mixing pop standards and favourite show tunes with sparky quips and occasionally tear-jerking personal stories, all with the total self-assurance of a seasoned professional.

Although a gifted musical interpreter, Barrowman was canny enough to realise that, in his new incarnation as a Saturday night prime time TV regular, he would have to up the cheese factor: Barry Manilow numbers, Latino rump-shakers, I Am What I Am histrionics, the works.

Occasionally, he overstepped the mark: an over-familiar Amarillo was an end-of-the-pier gesture too far. But for the most part, the balance between showmanship and song craft was ably struck.

Highlights for the music lovers included fine renditions of Nina Simone’s Feelin’ Good and I Won’t Send Roses (from Mack and Mabel). Highlights for the fans included special appearances from Captain Jack’s greatcoat and the Elvis outfit from Dancing On Ice.

Who cared if the outfits got the bigger cheers? Certainly not the ebullient Barrowman, whose infectiously gleeful determination to make the absolute most of his “moment in the sun” may be his biggest asset of all.

Labels: celebs, eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

A Barry Adamson gig outside London is rare enough, but a full tour is something quite unprecedented. Last seen here in 1984 with the Bad Seeds, Adamson’s long overdue return saw him fronting a six piece band, and promoting his eighth solo album, Back To The Cat.

Although a multi-instrumentalist in the studio, Barry played no instruments on stage (unless you counted a vintage Rolf Harris Stylopohone, which was briefly brandished and caressed in the manner of an axe hero giving a virtuoso performance). Shaven-headed, sharply dressed and powerfully built, he prowled the stage with the arresting presence of a retired boxer, immersing himself in the characters of his filmic, retro-flavoured “imaginary soundtracks”.

As the set progressed, selections from the new album increasingly dominated – as well they might, given that this is possibly Adamson’s most immediate, audience-friendly work to date, and hence the inspiration for breaking with precedent and staging the tour. I Could Love You flirted with deep soul, Straight ‘Til Sunrise mixed Bacharach-style breeziness with lyrical darkness, and the rousing, anthemic Civilization drew the loudest cheers.

The band encored with the album’s brooding opener Beaten Side Of Town, before closing with a slinky re-working of Sly Stone’s (and Magazine’s) Thank You.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Nearly a year after the release of their debut album, the critical plaudits continue to roll in for this five-piece band from Kilsyth, near Glasgow. On the strength of Tuesday night’s arresting show, it is easy to see why. Taking the so-called “shoegazing” music of the early 1990s as their starting point, the Twilight Sad mix the widescreen, effects-laden sound of My Bloody Valentine with the fuzzed-out squall of the Jesus and Mary Chain, adding some of the sweetness of classic Phil Spector for good measure.

Perhaps their nearest contemporary counterparts are the much-vaunted Glasvegas, particularly in the heavily accented vocal department – but the material is denser, less immediate, less anthemic, and altogether more personal.

Standing at right angles to the stage, singer James Graham combined Ian Curtis-like intensity with a gentler, more measured approach. The overall impact was undeniably dramatic – but it was also unexpectedly uplifting, and almost reassuring.

(Photo taken on November 29, 2007 by nailest)

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

(Yesterday marked the end of my Four Gigs In Four Nights Project. Here's the final instalment.)


If Duffy's swift and seemingly effortless rise to fame has sometimes felt like the work of an uncommonly slick and efficient marketing machine, then you have to wonder what glitch in the masterplan allowed her to end up playing a tiny venue like the Bodega. With Mercy enjoying at its third week at Number One, and with her debut album Rockferry set to enter the charts at the same position, she could have filled a venue five times the size -- and so it was very much to her credit that she opted to honour the booking.

As the Bodega isn't exactly in the business of hosting chart-topping acts, there was a palpable sense of occasion in the room, as the lucky few jostled for position. In keeping with the singer's star status, a full-sized mixing desk had been installed, reducing the available space still further. If our applause seemed muted, it was simply because we were wedged in so tightly that clapping had become a physical impossibility.

For Duffy herself, the show represented a fresh opportunity: to play her songs to an audience who were already familiar with them. Her excitement was evident, and charmingly genuine. Instead of the cool, untouchable professional polish that might have been expected, she radiated an unspun, girl-next-door quality, still very much the former Welsh waitress made good, and with something of the friendly, homely appeal of a young Dolly Parton. Even her slightly gawky stage banter ("and my next song is called...") worked to her advantage, bringing her appeal down to a thoroughly human level.

When a dramatic pause in one song accidentally exposed one audience member in full (and foul-mouthed) conversational flow, she milked the moment to full advantage: grinning in mock-horror, sharing the joke, and stretching the pause almost to breaking point before resuming the song to loud whoops of appreciation. "You're so... fluffy!", exclaimed one excited punter. "Yeah -- fluffy Duffy!", she beamed, lapping up the compliment.

Although breathless comparisons have been made with Amy Winehouse and even Dusty Springfield, these do not serve her well. Vocally, the 23-year old is a good deal more eager Lulu than measured Dusty -- but as some clued-up commentators have already spotted (and as a few visits to YouTube will confirm), her singing bears a particularly striking resemblance to the long-forgotten early 1980s singer Carmel.

Right from the first few notes of the opening number Rockferry, it was clear that the bright young starlet had the vocal skills to justify the hype. Hers is a powerful, dramatic instrument, which can confidently ride a melody and sweep you up with its sheer force. Yes, it still lacks a certain emotional depth -- but equally, it doesn't seek to compensate with false shows of manufactured melodrama.

For Duffy is who she is: an essentially cheerful girl, who readily confessed that she had never truly been in love ("Or maybe I have? Oh, I don't know! What is love, anyway?"), and whose strongest suit is a gently assertive, not-going-to-take-any-nonsense-from-you-mister approach. By and large, her songs are not yet written from personal experience, and nor do they claim to be. Either that will come in time, raising her artistry to greater heights, or else Duffy will settle into the sort of role previously occupied by the likes of Sam Brown: a happy trouper, with many years of guest appearances with Jools Holland ahead of her. It will be fascinating to see how she develops -- and after last night's wholly delightful performance, only the most grudging of cynics could fail to wish her well.

(Photo taken at the Bristol Thekla on February 26th 2008 by podiluska, and reproduced under a Creative Commons non-commercial attribution license.)

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

A heaving, happy moshpit is always a joy to behold. When the average age of that moshpit is around 45 years old (as well as being one of the largest that the Rescue Rooms has ever seen), you know you’ve stumbled across something very special indeed.

Former Specials and Fun Boy Three front man Neville Staple is 53, and as up for it as ever. Although never exactly the creative powerhouse of either band, he brought a spirited vitality to both – and with his current and surprisingly excellent team of backing musicians, that same spirit remains gloriously undimmed. As they ploughed their way through old ska classics (Monkey Man, Pressure Drop) and Specials favourites (Gangsters, Rat Race, Ghost Town), you were left wondering why they hadn’t been the headline act all along.

Following such all-out mayhem, The Beat had a tough job maintaining the same momentum – but their looser, dubbier, more fluid and spacious sound eventually restored energy levels to maximum. Although only two original members remain – drummer Everett Morton and singer Ranking Roger – the spirit of the old recordings shone through, boosted by some splendid sax playing from an uncredited new member, who bore a distinct resemblance to original band leader Dave Wakeling. Additional vocal contributions came from Roger’s son, Ranking Junior, whose youthful braggadocio brought an extra edge to the performance. Of the old hits, Too Nice To Talk To and Mirror In The Bathroom sounded particularly fine, reminding us of a remarkable period in British musical history.

(Photo of Neville Staple taken on August 30th 2007 by nacaseven, and reproduced under a Creative Commons non-commercial attribution license.)

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

At most shows, there’s something both distracting and annoying about the inevitable sea of phone screens, wafting above the heads of the crowd. At last night’s re-creation of Replicas – Gary Numan’s 1979 breakthrough album, which famously deals with themes of alienation in an increasingly mechanised world – the phenomenon seemed almost appropriate, as if the phone-wielders could only experience the show at one remove.

In a rare concession to nostalgia, the album was performed in full, albeit in a different track sequence, and augmented by sundry B-sides and outtakes from the same period. Considering the critical panning that Replicas was given at the time, the songs held up magnificently, sounding as fresh and as relevant as ever.

As for Numan, who turns fifty on Saturday, middle age had not dimmed his singular and remarkable charisma in any respect, the cragginess of his face somehow serving to accentuate that essential other-ness. More crucially, his absolute belief in the old material – the anthemic Down In The Park, the helpless Me I Disconnect From You, the prophetic We Are So Fragile – was palpable, and helped to fuel a truly compelling performance.

Three decades ago, the rock snobs dismissed Numan as an opportunistic Bowie copyist, whose fluked fame would quickly fade. How wrong they were. Thirty years on, with his reputation fully restored and his influence widely acknowledged, the last laugh belongs not to the cracked actor who fell to earth, but to the authentically angst-driven alien who came in from the cold.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

It’s unusual for a young, fairly successful band to play progressively smaller venues with each visit – but unaccountably, Southampton four-piece Delays have managed to slide from the capacious (Trent University, 2004) to the comfortable (Rescue Rooms, 2006) to the compact (Bodega Social, last night). For a band of their undoubted abilities, whose brand of good-natured, well-turned indie-power-pop compares more than favourably with the competition, this seems less than fair.

Still looking astonishingly youthful, and with a third album ready to drop next month, the band kicked off the hour-long set with perhaps their best known number, Long Time Coming. New material such as forthcoming single Hooray and the impressive sounding Pieces held their own against the instantly recognisable glam-rock stomp of Hideaway and the electronically propulsive set-closer Valentine – but there were few signs of any major musical progression. This is a band who knows what they’re good at, and who have chosen to stick within their limits.

Perhaps it was the messy sound mix (had there been a proper sound check?), or perhaps it was the crowd’s reserve (“They’ve got rigor mortis!” wailed one frustrated punter), but things never quite gelled. Maybe it was just the wrong venue, on the wrong night.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

(In which I put my blagging skills to the test at the door of The Social, and wonder afterwards whether it was worth it...)

Thanks to a staggered timetable and some canny cross-promotion via Facebook, dedicated followers of US alt-rock were given the opportunity to see two critically acclaimed bands in two different venues, all in the space of a couple of hours.

Over at the Rescue Rooms, the larger venue drew the smaller crowd. Menonema, a three-piece act from Portland Oregon, took an intriguingly experimental approach, with band members swapping instruments and alternating on vocals. Judicious use of foot pedals and a laptop fleshed out the surprisingly widescreen sound, and an amiably loose-limbed, musicianly vibe predominated. Although far from immediate in terms of melody and rhythm, the songs maintained a textural interest throughout, with all manner of pleasing twists and turns along the way.

Up at the Bodega, the smaller venue was packed to capacity, possibly due to MGMT’s recent appearance on BBC2’s Later. The Brooklyn five-piece adopted a tougher, more visceral style, whose relatively timid conservatism came as a disappointment after the Rescue Rooms show. Around the venue, concentration lapsed and conversations broke out. Yes, they might be the band of the moment – but one has to wonder how long that moment will last.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Written using Q10, a nifty little freeware full screen text editor that updates your word count against a pre-set target as you type. Early days, but I'm rather fond. (via Gordon)

As trance/techno audiences go, System 7's are one of the least typical. For every fresh-faced, lithe-limbed club kid, you could count at least two or three more seasoned souls in their late forties (and all points upwards), doubtless partly drawn by Steve Hillage's 1970s prog-rock pedigree.

Accompanied by long term partner and fellow Gong survivor Miquette Giraudy on keyboards and associated knob-twiddling, Hillage added that rarest of ingredients to a dance event: live electric guitar. A thousand miles away from the florid, noodly flailings of his prog days, his playing is more ambient and textural these days: another ingredient in the mix, rather than the over-arching dominant sound.

There's not much to look at during a System 7 gig. Both performers remained fairly static throughout, bearing benign half-smiles of concentration that sometimes lapsed into scrunched-up expressions of outright bliss. The music ranged from the chilled to the pounding, with the accent on the latter, but the rich, intricate over-layering of the melodies prevented the underlying rhythms from ever becoming oppressive.

Selections from the recently released Phoenix album were blended into the mix throughout, with Hinotori, Space Bird and particularly the Gong-sampling Strange Beings galvanising this uniquely diverse crowd.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Her manner might be gentle and bookish, her songwriting might be quiet and introspective, but Laura Veirs knows a good ferris wheel when she sees one. "We went round the Nottingham Eye five times!", she exclaimed. "That's five quid per time! I thought it would only be once; that would be more American."

Although technical problems forced her to abandon the live looping equipment halfway through the second number, Laura retained a relaxed, conversational demeanour throughout her solo acoustic set. Rather than plugging her latest release Saltbreakers, she drew on material from five of her six albums ("but not the first one; that was dumb"), offering to mail us her sold out CDs personally after the tour finishes.

Laura's compositions tend towards the contemplative and abstract, with echoes of Kristin Hersh's 1990s work. Drawing on images from mythology and the natural world - dragons and mermaids, nightingales and butterflies - her enigmatic lyrics require close concentration. In this respect, The Maze proved an ideal venue. Although packed to capacity, the silence was unbroken throughout, save for a "free improv" massed whistling session halfway through.

An excellent version of Wrecking closed the set, to sustained and deserved applause.

Photo taken on February 1st 2008 by Nick Bramhall, and reproduced under a Creative Commons non-commercial attribution license.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

For Lorna Luft, a show business veteran of over thirty-five years' standing, Songs My Mother Taught Me - a two hour tribute to her mother Judy Garland - represents both a reconciliation and a celebration. Having spent years trying to outrun the shadow cast by Garland's legendary status, Luft has reached a point in her life where she can publicly express her gratitude, and salute her late mother's remarkable genius.

Backed by a ten piece orchestra, with British husband Colin Freeman directing the music, Lorna took us on a journey of fond remembrance. The show started with Garland serenading her young daughter on the screen, before a beaming, effusive Luft took to the stage in a sparkling silver gown.

In less capable hands, performing a live duet with one's dead mother could have could have been a recipe for toe-curling tastelessness. Thanks to Luft's experience and judgement, the risk paid off, the two voices harmonising deftly and tenderly.

The show's accent remained firmly on the positive, as Lorna regaled us with comic anecdotes that revealed Judy as quite the outrageous prankster, rather than the tragic figure of popular imagining (a misconception which apparently drove both mother and daughter "nuts" with exasperation). Tribute was also paid to the "Rat Pack" - a title which Garland bestowed upon them in jest - and in particular to Luft's godfather Frank Sinatra and surrogate uncle Sammy Davis Junior.

The highlight of the second half was a marathon medley which traced Garland's journey from inauspicious beginnings (Born In A Trunk) to her 1961 triumph at Carnegie Hall. Finally, and in preference to appropriating Judy's signature tune Over The Rainbow for herself, Lorna opted to intertwine the archive recording with her own Shining Star, to richly moving effect. It was a fitting climax to a bravura display of classic show business values, lovingly staged and beautifully sung.

Photo taken, despite a fair deal of "BUT OH NO I COULDN'T POSSIBLY!" protestation from myself (after all, you know how I hate to push myself forward), by Sarah R, at the CD signing which followed the show.

Labels: celebs, eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

"You came here tonight not knowing what to expect, and that's what you're going to get", announced Boy George at the start of his show, midway through his first UK tour in a decade. "It's an intimate show; it's not X Factor. Do you like the hat?"

Perhaps in order to encourage that feeling of "intimacy", the stage was stripped bare of all props, with no backdrops and no special lighting. George's four piece band played a sparsely arranged, mostly acoustic-driven set, aided by two backing singers who occasionally provided lead vocals. A special mention was given to the drummer, who was playing his first night with the band after just a day's rehearsal. Given George's well-documented turbulent relationships with former drummers, one couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the old one.

George has stated that the purpose of the tour is to "re-establish myself as an artist", and to "re-establish my reputation as a human being, which I think has been pretty torn apart over the last few years." Despite various recent run-ins with the law, and long periods away from the public spotlight, he still retains a special place in our affections, attracting a broad cross-section of ages and backgrounds in his audience. The goodwill was still there. All had to do now was deliver.

And here, unfortunately, is where the problem lay. Perhaps because of those long absences from stage performing, the O'Dowd pipes are not altogether what they used to be. Gone was the honeyed sweetness of his 1980s recordings, replaced by a gravely rasp which, although still not without soulful expressiveness, lacked both range and finesse. Far too many of his best known numbers were sung without reference to their original melodies, as George improvised awkwardly phrased harmony parts that, in terms of pitch, kept him safely within his comfort zone. (During Do You Really Want To Hurt Me and Karma Chameleon, the melodies were so comprehensively abandoned that the crowd struggled to sing along.) More annoyingly, he displayed an over-fondness for interrupting himself with a series of repetitively high pitched whoops, which added nothing to the interpretations.

This could simply have been down to lack of practice, but George betrayed more nervousness than his articulate, waspish public persona would have you believe. Perhaps he was simply scared of pushing for those higher and lower notes, having convinced himself that his voice was no longer up to the job? On the strength of last night's show, the problems that we witnessed were nothing that a skilled vocal coach couldn't help put right - provided that George is genuinely prepared to re-dedicate himself to his craft, and to put long, hard hours of work in.

That said, there were still flashes of the old brilliance, particularly towards the end of the set (two hours, with a badly timed interval after the first 35 minutes). A beautiful duet with Lizzy Dean on the old Culture Club ballad That's The Way, backed by a solo piano, played to all his strengths, as did the gospel-flavoured rendition of the old civil rights anthem This Little Light Of Mine which followed.

Best of all, an unscripted final encore of Generations Of Love, as requested from the audience, was little short of dazzling. Fully warmed up by now, and singing on "extra time" purely for the love of it, George gave one of his finest compositions the performance it deserved, stepping to the front of the stage and singing out to the whole hall, instead of relying on the usual foot-shuffling and general diddling around.

All he needs to do now is build on those still remarkable strengths, and find the confidence to overcome his self-imposed weaknesses.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Is the world ready for yet another "new Amy Winehouse"? In these current Adele/Duffy dominated times, perhaps not quite yet - but it's hardly Gabreilla Cilmi's fault that vocally, she happens to be a dead ringer for everyone's favourite "troubled" diva.

Displaying an astonishing maturity for her sixteen years, this Australian singer-songwriter turned in a polished, practised set, mixing original compositions such as forthcoming single Sweet About Me with a sprightly, soulful cover of Kylie's Can't Get You Out Of My Head. Although currently best known for her version of Echo Beach, as featured on the ITV drama series of the same name, there are already clear signs of a major marketing push, which may well establish her before the year is through.

There's a certain Smug Middle Class Dinner Party element to some of Nouvelle Vague's bossa nova reworkings of post-punk classics, which can frankly be a bit off-putting. Towards the start of their set, this element was very much at the forefront, leaving one wondering how soon the joke was going to wear thin.

Thankfully, as lightweight crowd pleasers such as Ever Fallen In Love and Blue Monday gave way to lesser known material, and as the band switched from pure bossa nova to a more rock based approach, the inherent darkness of the material came more to the forefront, and an altogether more satisfying experience began to emerge. Tackling One Hundred Years - possibly the bleakest song that The Cure have ever recorded ("It doesn't matter if we all die") - was a bold move, and a risk which paid off artistically, even if it failed to quell the increasingly irritating chatter from the dinner party brigade towards the back of the venue.

The four piece band was fronted by two new singers, Nadeah and Marianne, each radiating a strangely off-kilter kind of glamour: arch, arresting, and über-cool. In the middle of the Dead Kennedys' Too Drunk To F***, Nadeah jumped off the stage, tore through the crowd and sprang onto the bar, where she strutted precariously in a parody of wasted inebriation. Having secured a full pint of lager from the bar staff, she was back on stage in seconds, with barely a drop spilt. You simply had to admire the woman's style.

While as yet unreleased covers of Devo's Girl You Want and Richard Hell's Blank Generation (done as a jazzy strut, with liberal lashings of ennui) drew favourable receptions, the biggest cheers of the night went to The Clash's Guns Of Brixton and Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart, the latter showing clear signs of turning into a Nottingham anthem by proxy. (Well, we've all seen Control, haven't we?) Its reception - and the massed singalong, which continued even after the band left the stage - seemed to take the band by surprise, but they capitalised on the moment magnificently, returning after only a couple of minutes, and picking up the song where they left off. Never was an "encore" more deserving of its name.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Photo taken at the Hackney Empire, July 14th 2007 by armcurl, and reproduced under a Creative Commons non-commercial attribution license.

For a band who have yet to be signed to a major label, the hype machine has been rolling hard for this Glasgow foursome. Bigged up by the BBC, feted by the NME (where their forthcoming single is currently Track of the Week), praised by former Creation boss Alan McGee ("the most important band of the last twenty years"), and even schmoozed by Lisa Marie Presley, their future success already feels like a done deal.

Having all but killed the anticipatory buzz by subjecting us to a thirty minute tape of slow 1950s doo-wop, the band sauntered on stage in a haze of dry ice, and launched into a half hour set of extraordinary intensity.

Their reference points might be well worn – Phil Spector, surf-rock, the Jesus and Mary Chain, My Bloody Valentine – but the sheer strength of the songwriting ensured that Glasvegas effortlessly transcended their influences. Quiffed up like a young Joe Strummer, singer James Allan belted out future anthems such as Go Square Go and It's My Own Cheating Heart That Makes Me Cry with articulate conviction.

The set climaxed with the remarkable Daddy’s Gone – part accusation, part pledge – and a fuzzed-out thrash through The Ronettes’ Be My Baby.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Following a wretched eight year struggle with her old record company, Alison Moyet emerged from the musical wilderness in 2002. Three albums later, with full artistic control firmly established, she has never sounded happier, more confident, or in better voice.

Last night's set began in subdued style, with a selection of smouldering ballads that ranged from a cover of Windmills Of Your Mind to a sultry, stripped down, bitterly accusing All Cried Out. The pace quickened for a rapturously received Love Resurrection, making a welcome re-appearance after many years in mothballs. An audience request for Dorothy was instantly and cheerfully granted, with characteristic disregard for the strictures of the set list.

Current album The Turn was well represented, with seven selections. The more intimate, theatrical numbers worked best of all, particularly a heart-stopping rendition of The Man In The Wings. In stark contrast, a messy attempt at It's Not The Thing Henry was stopped short after the first minute. (“I just didn't feel like it” explained Alison, with a casual shrug of the shoulders.)

The twenty-three song set covered the full extent of Moyet's career, stretching back to her early days with Yazoo. Of her solo albums, only 1987's Raindancing was given the cold shoulder -- a snub which suggested that she was never too happy with the bland MOR pop direction that was being foisted upon her at the time.

Perhaps the highlight of the whole evening was an all-acoustic “unplugged” version of Whispering Your Name. Like many of the strongest performances, it benefited from the absence of the drummer, who struggled to quell his desire to rock out during some of the quieter numbers.

An extended encore started with a Jacques Brel number, sung in the original French, and ended with a rip-roaring, triumphant Don't Go.

Set list:
One More Time
Wishing You Were Here
Windmills Of Your Mind
All Cried Out
Fire
Can't Say It Like I Mean It
Ski
Love Resurrection
Dorothy
The Man In The Wings
Only You
Love Letters
The Sharpest Corner (Hollow)
This House
Whispering Your Name
Footsteps
It's Not The Thing Henry
Come Together
Momma Momma
La Chanson Des Vieux Amants
Smaller
That Old Devil Called Love
Don't Go

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

As a warm-up to British Sea Power's aural onslaught, Glasgow six-piece Make Model provided an amiable if underwhelming set of chunky, chugging, mid-paced indie-pop. Melodically strong but rhythmically restricted, the band were held back by under-confidence.

Thirty minutes later, the onslaught began. Thanks to its cannily timed release date, which has taken full advantage of the traditional January lull, British Sea Power's third album has gathered plaudits from all quarters, placing them very much as the band of the moment.

With drummer Woody laid up with a back injury, stand-in Tom White (Electric Soft Parade/Brakes) did an outstanding fill-in job. Numbers were further swelled by a violinist and a keyboard/brass player.

The set was dominated by cuts from the new album, punctuated by crowd-pleasers such as Please Stand Up and The Spirit Of St. Louis, which saw guitarist Noble scaling the outside of the balcony, tambourine in hand, before dropping down into the crowd below. Of the new material, current single Waving Flags drew the biggest response, showing clear signs of being a future festival anthem.

As usual, vocals were shared between Yan and Hamilton, who matched each other in concentrated intensity. For Atom, a 1940s air raid siren was hoisted onto the middle of the stage; it returned for the encore, which climaxed with an ear-splitting and cathartic twenty-minute version of No Lucifer.

Regular visitors to the Rescue Rooms over the years, the band have never sounded so focussed and confident. On the strength of this stunning set, 2008 could be theirs for the taking.

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

This year, I attended a whopping 58 gigs (compared with a mere 30 in 2006), and I thoroughly enjoyed the vast majority of them. These were my absolute favourites.

1. From The Jam, Rescue Rooms, May
When the chants down the front changed from "We are the mods" to "Who needs Weller?" you knew Bruce and Rick's gamble had paid off.

2. Beyoncé, Arena, June
Also the winner of 2007's How Many Superlatives Can I Cram Into One Review Award. If only all Arena gigs were of this exemplary standard...

3. Cardiacs, Rescue Rooms, November
Revelation of the year! This lot have been together for 30 years, and yet I've only just discovered them. Proving that prog and punk CAN mix, and that songs with impossible time signatures can still be moshable.

4. Los Campesinos!, Social, March
In some respects, as traditionally "indie" as indie gets (shambling undergraduates in charity-shop cardigans, all very Peel Would Approve) - and as such, not something which would normally float my boat - but when it's done as captivatingly well as this, I'm not about to argue.

5. Amy Winehouse / Mr. Hudson & the Library, Rock City, March
The wheels may have fallen off Amy's wagon rather too often since, but we had it lucky: she was straight, sober and stunning. Having initially found Back To Black rather too mannered to convice, I emerged from this show fully converted.

6. Feist, Social, September
On the night that 1234 went Top Forty, the Social's consistently ahead-of-the-curve booking policy gave us one last chance to experience Leslie Feist in a suitably intimate setting. A fine performance, with no lingering traces of dinner-party-friendly Hipster Norah Jones-isms (if that's even such a bad thing in the first place).

7. Rachel Unthank & the Winterset, The Maze, November
Jollier, jokier and less austere than the second album might have suggested, but with none of their essential impact diluted along the way. If English folk is not your bag, then be prepared for a serious re-think.

8. Get Cape Wear Cape Fly / Kate Nash, Trent University, January
On the strength of this show, I had Mister Cape pegged as a major star by the summer, and Ms Nash as a Lily Allen wannabe who would sink without trace. What unfathomably strange creatures the British public can be...

9. Black Mountain / Evil Hawk, Rescue Rooms, December
Glistening Irridescent Shards Of Pure Unfettered Sound Alert! Crack open the Thesaurus, Mabel, this is a good 'un! Black Mountain's second album "drops" in 2008, and I for one shall be around to catch it when it falls.

10. Young Knives / Ungdomskulen / The Housewives, Rescue Rooms, October
OK, so the Young Knives were no more than OK - but the Norwegian prog-trash trio Ungdomskulen were a revelation, and duly pick up the Support Act Of The Year award.

11. Low, Rescue Rooms, April
One of those rare gigs where the band plays quiet, and everyone concentrates (see also Feist above). Rescue Rooms, I commend you. A truly spell-binding show.

12. Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, Royal Centre, November
When it comes to the restoration of his muse to 2000-era Heartbreaker levels, the number of false dawns has been second only to Prince - but now, with his demons firmly dispelled, Ryan's time could well have come at last. (That was a shit sentence, but I'm on me hols and temporarily past caring.)

13. John Martyn, Royal Centre, May
A grim start to be sure, but everything snapped into focus for the classic Solid Air album, which was played in full. What began as a dithery mumble ended as a passionate roar.

14. Euros Childs / Das Wanderlust, Social, September
Understated, self-effacing, alternately reflective and whimsical, effortlessly charming and melodically acute... no, it's not Kevin Ayers, but Euros could be shaping up as his spiritual heir.

15. Joan Baez, Royal Centre, March
But I thought she was all pious and preachy? Volte-face of the year, as I finally twig just what makes La Baez one of the greats.

16. Donny Osmond, Royal Centre, October
The second of three occasions (the others being Jason Donovan and the Arcade Fire's Win Butler) when a performer leapt off the stage and lurched determinedly through the audience, only to end up within touching distance of me. (My sister: "I've pulled Donny Osmond!") What strange, unearthly magnetism do I possess, that compels these men to throw themselves at me?

17. Andy Williams, Royal Centre, July
The last ever show of his last ever tour, we were told. And with his show-stopping rendition of Macarthur Park, one hell of a way to bow out.

18. Fionn Regan, Social, October
I didn't see this one coming at all. A quiet revelation, of the folk-meets-alt-country variety.

19. Cocorosie / Tez, Trent University, June
The French human beat-boxer Tez took the art to a whole new level, while Cocorosie turned their set around from smug aloofness to captivating brilliance.

20. Smokey Robinson, Royal Centre, July
Worth it for The Tracks Of My Tears alone, and with enough living-legend soulfulness to balance out the showbiz schmaltz (and the cheesy Miss Anglia Television 1978 backing dancers).

21. Palladium, Social, October
"They'll be back and they'll be big", I said. Fashion victim stylings tempered by incongruously musicianly "chops" and some magnificently flashy Axe Hero diddling 'n widdling.

22. Nuru Kane & Bayefall Gnawa, Lakeside, April
Playing for nearly three hours, Nuru Kane melded smoky desert blues, trance-like Moroccan "gnawa", hypnotic Afrobeat, and a rhythmic propulsion which got even this predominantly academic arts-centre crowd on their feet and grooving.

23. From The Jam, Rock City, December
WHO! NEEDS! WELLAH! WHO! NEEDS! WELLAH!

24. Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Rock City, January
OK, so he lost it after the first hour - but what a magnificent first hour, all the same.

25. Maria McKee, Rescue Rooms, May
Just plain enjoyable, basically. Smiles all round.

26. Erasure / Onetwo, Royal Centre, September
Being on the front row was a bit weird, but MY GOD did I make the most of it. Knocked the arty-but-dull Pet Shop Boys show into a cocked hat, that's for sure.

27. Tinariwen, Leicester De Montfort, May
More than good enough for me to forgive the repeated interview no-shows (of which there were several, CSS I'm looking at YOU).

28. Diana Ross, Arena, May
A bit all-over-the-place, but endearingly so - and when she hit it, she HIT it. The Boss! Ain't No Mountain High Enough! ShizafookinSTAR! I can die happy!

29. Alabama Three, London Astoria, October
Not just a gig, but a mini-blogmeet to boot, as I twinkled my toes off down the front with Zoe and the Twat. ShizafookinSTAR! Et cetera, et cetera!

30. Foals, Rescue Rooms, October
Once you factored out the Trendy Wanker seen-em-on-Skins faction, who were more bothered with being seen in the right place than actually paying attention (and believe me, that took some doing), what we were left with was a rather promising little band. Impossible to tell whether the recordings will match the intensity of the live shows, but I'll be keeping an optimistic ear out.

And these were the duds:

53. Manu Chao, Rock City, November
The only show this year that I walked out of - although to be fair, it was also one of the most deliriously ecstatic audiences that I've ever witnessed at Rock City, in 27 years of going there. God knows what they saw in him, but there you go.

54. The Sugababes, Arena, April
Characterised above all else by the total and utter lack of rapport between the three women on stage, each of whom performed in their own little bubble of disinterested disconnection.

55. The Verve, Arena, December
WHADDA FAKKIN LIBERTY! Sloppy, under-rehearsed, shit sound, duff vocals, bad attitude both onstage and off.

56. Bucks Fizz / Brotherhood Of Man, Royal Centre, June
Until you have seen the Brotherhood Of Man perform a "Seventies Medley" which includes the likes of Shang-A-Lang, My Ding-A-Ling and Remember You're A Womble, you don't know the meaning of true suffering.

57. The X Factor Live, Arena, February
Leona was fine, the Macdonald Brothers were tolerably entertaining... and the rest was desperate, exploitative, bargain basement shite, even down to the taped backing vocals and the pointless, milk-em-dry, text message competition.

58. Siobhan Donaghy, London Popstarz, June
Painfully off-key, lousy sound mix, zero charisma, and no-one even bothered to get rid of the software error message on the DVD backdrop. At least I could enjoy hating the X Factor show, but this was just dismal and depressing.

Labels: gigs, lists, popmusic

Nottingham Royal Concert Hall, Thursday December 27. A marathon show deserved a marathon review, basically. Besides, all of that furious scribbling helped keep me awake...


(Photo of Ken Dodd taken in November 2005 by pixieclaire001)

19:06. Brandishing his trademark tickling sticks, Ken Dodd comes bounding onto the stage, greeting us with a cheery "Ey-up!" This week marks his fiftieth anniversary in show business, we are soon told. This is a little strange, as Dodd's first ever professional engagement was actually in 1954 -- at the old Empire Theatre, where the Royal Concert Hall now stands. But this is no time to sweat the details.

19.13. Ken has long been known for his marathon shows, and he wastes no time in taunting us with the prospect of being stuck in our seats until the small hours. "Don't worry about the buses and taxis -- there's always the milk floats!", he quips, milking our unease for maximum laughs.

19.25. Noting the average age of his audience (which is somewhere well in advance of sixty, despite a sprinkling of younger faces), Ken promises us two intervals: "One for lager, and one for Complan". We should be so lucky...

19:47. The keyboardist has yet to arrive, having been held up on the A50. ("Don't worry, we'll add it on to the end of the show.") The drummer is holding his own, though -- even prompting his boss on a couple of occasions, when the odd word slips his memory. Unable to take his scheduled musical breaks, Dodd is having to busk it a bit, making the show up as he goes along -- and although he's mostly doing OK, the strain is starting to show. Last month, Dodd turned eighty. Is the onset of old age finally starting to get to him?

20:05. Finally the keyboardist arrives, the stage hands setting up the equipment around him. With music on the agenda at last, Dodd leaves the stage, and a group of children perform a selection of Christmas carols.

20:14. After a very short burst of comedy, Dodd departs once more, leaving the same children to perform a singalong "wartime" medley. Without much in the way of audience participation, it all falls rather flat -- and with the appearance of his long-term partner Anne Jones, who performs a seemingly endless series of well-worn chestnuts, the evening sinks further still. So Ken gets a twenty-five minute break, even if we don't? You can feel the restlessness building in the aisles.

20:45. He's back, and things aren't going too well. "It's an educational show. When you get out of here tonight, you'll go: well, that's taught me a lesson." My companion rolls his eyes knowingly.

20:53. "There's a special name for what I'm doing now: struggling." You said it, Ken. His delivery is faltering -- not helped by a troublesome and rather fruity cough -- and the laughs simply aren't coming. He's trying to win us back, but it's an uphill struggle. When's the interval, anyway?

21:10. Ken is swapping banter with a poker-faced French maid of advanced years, who speaks with a local accent. The skit goes well enough, but there are still an awful lot of ad-libbed cracks about how quiet we all are. He even starts to take his frustrations out on the venue, "a Portakabin with a hint of mock-Wimpey".

21:19. Ye Gods, it's the Diddymen! We grin and bear it. Spirit of the Blitz, and all that.

21:32. Ken is threatening to cancel the interval and lock the gents' toilets. Frankly, I wouldn't put it past him. There's madness in those eyes tonight.

21:39. A musical tribute to the old masters of 20th century comedy -- Cooper, Chaplin, Askey, Groucho Marx, Max Wall and all the rest of them -- is marred by fluffed lines and ragged delivery. All around the auditorium, legs are being crossed just that little bit more tightly.

22:00. Nearly three hours in, the long awaited interval arrives. We stumble around the surprisingly uncrowded bar area, un-numbing our backsides and generally feeling a little shell-shocked. The beers might not be shifting, but the coffee stand is doing a brisk trade.

22:20. We're back in our seats, along with around 90% of the audience from the first half. The house lights go down, and on comes... a magic act! My companion and I look at each other aghast. Is this how they reward our loyalty? There is a routine with a disappearing lady, which I can't work out -- and a routine with swords and a cabinet, which I work out in seconds.

22:37. The great man is back -- and this time, he's brought a Thermos flask and sandwiches. "Most of you have been reported missing by now", he cries, before engaging various members of the front two rows in conversation.

22:45. "How many children have you got, missus?" It turns out that the lady in question has eight of them. He wasn't expecting this, and seems to dither for a while -- before coming back quite brilliantly. ("It's a good job you sewed that hole up in your husband's pyjamas. Well, you know what they say: a stitch in time saves nine!") The gag brings the house down. Hey, this is more like it.

22:54. There is something of a mini-exodus, as people rush off to catch their last buses, or get out of the car parks before closing time. Undeterred, Dodd is in the middle of a bizarre operatic routine about haddock. It's fast and wordy, and requires split-second timing. To our delight, the old boy pulls it off without a single hitch, to sustained applause. That interval seems to have done all of us the power of good...

23:10. The material is rather more "adult" in nature by now -- but it's merely risqué, and far from smutty. As the subject matter shifts from love-making to hospitals, so the material gets ever more considered and clever, playing to our intellects rather than going for endless quick-fire gags. We're into late night, after-hours territory, and the belly laughs are rolling around the room. Behind me, one lady has almost completely lost it, roaring hysterically at every other word. Next to me, my companion is dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Four hours in, and the octogenarian comedy legend is in peak form at last. Perhaps the people who left during the interval had got things the wrong way around -- instead of leaving early, they should have arrived late.

23:25. Dickie Mint, the ever-popular ventriloquist's doll, is sporting a guardsman's uniform tonight. Some of his routine is still fresh in our memories from BBC2's Christmas Eve "Ken Dodd Night" -- but plenty of the gags are new, and no-one really minds. With all the quick-fire word-play between Dodd and his cheeky dummy, the famous "no bad language" rule comes very close to being broken -- but in the end, our blushes are spared.

23:40. In between quips ("You know you're entitled to an attendance allowance for staying here?") Ken is reading out dedications from members of the audience. ("We're one step away from turning into sheltered accommodation!") The banter is flowing freely between the performer and the front two rows. The laughs are still rolling, and strange as it might sound, we feel like we could happily stay here all night. Two hours earlier, we couldn't wait for the interval. Now we don't want to leave.

23:55. Looking and sounding twenty years younger than the man who first stepped onto the stage, Dodd is working his way through some of his old hits -- Love Is Like A Violin, Tears -- and working in the odd Johnny Cash impersonation along the way. A final semi-operatic skit sees him in fine voice, every inch the ageless master of his craft, the last member of the music hall generation still standing. We shall never see his like again.

00:06. Bang on the five hour mark, an unashamedly sentimental Absent Friends brings the night to a close. Suddenly, Ken sounds older and frailer again, as he reluctantly ekes out his final moments on stage, not yet quite ready to step back into the shadows.

00:09. A quick burst of his signature tune Happiness, and it is all over. We feel as if we have just scaled the comedy equivalent of the North Face of the Eiger. He'll probably be back this time next year, just as he has been almost every year since 1954. Good old Ken. For many of his ever-loyal audience, the holday season just wouldn't be the same without him.

(First published on the Nottingham Evening Post's website.)

Labels: celebs, comedy, eveningpost, gigs

After the disappointment of her cancelled show on Saturday December 10th, it was a relief to see Rihanna return to Nottingham in full health, for the very last date of her Good Girl Gone Bad tour. However, for anyone hoping to see Ciara, who had been advertised as the main support act, a further disappointment was in store. After the winners of this year’s Dance X contest had finished strutting their stuff, we were left waiting for a full hour before the show continued, with no apology or explanation given for the R&B starlet’s disappearance. The situation had also caught the Arena’s staff by surprise, and not even your reporter’s determined enquiries could draw any further information.

The good-natured crowd took it all in their stride, greeting Rihanna with ear-splitting squeals of delight. Accompanied by four dancers, two singers and a four-piece band, she launched into a thumping version of Pon De Replay, working the stage with a broad, happy smile.

In contrast to the imperious, untouchable likes of Beyoncé Knowles, there was nothing of the diva or the control freak about this 19 year old Barbados girl. “I'd like to think that I'm pretty normal”, she told us during the ballad Question Existing, and this unaffected, girl-next-door attitude formed a key part of her appeal. This being the final show of the year, her backing dancers took every opportunity going to prank her, with their daft wigs, silly costumes and ludicrous dance routines reducing her to giggles on several occasions. With all the relaxed, affectionate, end-of-term silliness on display, you sensed that Rihanna ran a happy ship.

However, none of this could really excuse the shortness of the performance, which ran to just under an hour and a quarter, a couple of songs and costume changes having been dropped from the usual running order. This wouldn’t have mattered so much if we had been treated to the sort of full-on theatrical spectacle that might have been expected from a star of Rihanna’s calibre, but there was something a little lacking in the basic staging, the fairly ordinary choreography – and even in the singer’s tacky PVC costumes, which looked as if they had been picked up from the nearest Ann Summers.

That said, there was nothing cut-price about Rihanna’s extraordinary vocal prowess, which peaked during the show’s ballad section with flawless renditions of Good Girl Gone Bad, Hate That I Love You and Unfaithful. These are her finest songs, all of which deal with different aspects of failing or dysfunctional relationships, and she sang them with subtlety, poise and grace, making it all look so easy.

Following this artistic highlight, the high-octane dance numbers which closed the main set came as a joyful release of energy – particularly the pounding club track Don’t Stop The Music, which sent the younger elements of the audience giddy with excitement.

The show could only close with one song. Umbrella has not only been 2007’s biggest selling single, but it has also been the year’s defining, inescapable anthem. It was therefore only right and proper that Nottingham’s final Arena show before Christmas should end on such a collective high, as dozens of umbrellas were hoisted all over the auditorium for what felt like an endless extended remix (it actually ran for ten minutes).

The night finished with Rihanna and her entire crew attacking each other with snow guns and generally goofing around, as Umbrella’s backing track chundered on and on. Sure, it was a little self-indulgent – but it was rather heart-warming as well.

Set list:
Pon De Replay
Break It Off
Let Me
Rehab
Breakin’ Dishes
Kisses Don’t Lie
SOS
Good Girl Gone Bad
Hate That I Love You
Unfaithful
Sell Me Candy
Don’t Stop The Music
Push Up On Me
Shut Up And Drive
Question Existing
Umbrella

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Hailing from Tavistock in Devon, The Rumble Strips scored their big break in May, as the top-billed act on the NME/Topman package tour. Their music owed a clear debt to Dexys Midnight Runners, particularly on the numbers where two band members doubled up as a brass section. Last March's nearly-hit Alarm Clock stood out from the pack, with its punchy, drum-heavy arrangement. Unfortunately, the song which followed it opened almost identically -- as did the next one. By the end of their sprightly, genial, but ultimately undemanding half-hour set, you sensed that they had used up their still limited box of tricks.

For anyone who had endured The Verve's atrocious sound mix two nights earlier, it was a relief to hear Hard-Fi sounding comparatively crisp and clear, at least once some early technical problems had been resolved. ("Kai's bass has been taken out the back and shot", muttered singer Richard Archer.) They had obviously worked hard to prepare for their biggest tour to date, applying careful thought to the lighting and visuals. Opening number Middle Eastern Holiday was accompanied by some particularly inventive video backdrops, mixing vintage arcade games, military footage and pop-art imagery to compelling effect.

In the course of their eighteen song, ninety minute set, the Staines boys performed most of their debut album Stars of CCTV, and all but one song from its follow-up, Once Upon A Time In The West (the heavily orchestrated Watch Me Fall Apart being an understandable omission). The more rousing newer numbers fared best of all, with Can't Get Along (Without You) coming as an early highlight. A mariachi-style trumpet appeared for the intro of forthcoming single I Shall Overcome, and Archer whipped out his trusty melodica for older tracks such as Better Do Better.

Hard-Fi's essentially down-to-earth nature forms a central part of their appeal. These are no untouchable superstars, but regular blokes from the suburbs who articulate the everyday concerns of their audience. However, in order to transfer their act from sweaty rock venues to 10,000 capacity arenas, they still need to raise their game, own the stage, and reach out to everyone in the hall, not just the heaving moshers down the front.

To his credit, Archer tried his best to connect. Nevertheless, as the singer's calls for mass participation grew more frequent and pleading, you sensed that he was trying a little too hard. Although an energetic and industrious front man, he lacked natural authority. "I've been reading my Idiot's Guide to Arena Rock", he quipped, cheerfully poking fun at his shortcomings, but also drawing attention to a hurdle that has yet to be overcome.

The band hit their stride with a wonderfully smooth, controlled Tonight, following it with the swaggering, anthemic Suburban Knights. At this point, they almost had the night in their pockets. Sadly, a woefully scrappy Hard To Beat threw away these gains in an instant, closing the main set on an awkward downer. Compared to their confident start -- and especially compared to their superb 2005 show at Rock City -- the encore came as something of an anti-climax.

Set List:
Middle Eastern Holiday
I Close My Eyes
Tied Up Too Tight
Can't Get Along
Television
Better Do Better
I Shall Overcome
Help Me Please
Little Angel
Cash Machine
We Need Love
You And Me
Tonight
Suburban Knights
Hard To Beat
Encore:
The King
Stars Of CCTV
Living For The Weekend

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

(Photo of The Verve at Nottingham Arena taken by Simon Collinson)

Following considerable press hype and a couple of hits, seven–piece Sheffield band Reverend and the Makers stepped up to the demands of an arena gig as if it were their natural habitat. Mentored by the veteran Mancunian punk poet John Cooper Clarke, and with Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys as a close friend and kindred spirit, lanky frontman Jon McClure, aka The Reverend, won over the initially cautious crowd with his acerbic portraits of modern city life. His band drew inspiration from anthemic 1990s indie of the Stone Roses/Oasis variety, mixing it up with funky electronics in an agreeable and promising fashion.

Eight years after splitting, The Verve returned to the live stage in early November, with an ecstatically received run of dates in medium-sized venues. Encouraged by the universally positive reaction, they swiftly arranged a full-blown arena tour, of which last night’s show was the first.

With his outsized shades and newly bleached crop, Richard Ashcroft had the look of 1973-era Lou Reed about him, but everything else about his performance style – aloof, arrogant and intense, with more than a touch of the messianic – remained unchanged. Although Verve material had continued to feature in his solo shows, guitarist Nick McCabe’s absence had always been keenly felt, and so expectations were understandably high.

The band opened with the 1995 single This Is Music, before launching into instant crowd-pleaser Sonnet, with its distinctive guitar chops that still bring Spandau Ballet’s True rather unfortunately to mind. The set continued in mid-paced, somewhat sombre mode, mixing material from their two lesser known early albums with generous chunks from the multi-million selling classic that the vast bulk of the audience had come to hear, Urban Hymns.

Although a handful of new songs were premiered on the November tour, none of them surfaced during last night’s show – but instead of seizing the opportunity to whip up a storm, the band held back, losing themselves in ponderous sludge and unfocussed guitar jams. Sure, a few arms-aloft diehards down the front were clearly having the time of their lives, but most of the arena merely looked on with polite half-smiles, waiting for things to catch fire.

Ashcroft’s vocals first faltered during a lacklustre On Your Own, revealing an awkward off-key croakiness. Although he mostly managed to pull them back, problems recurred during History, which even drew an apology. (“I messed it up a bit folks, but that’s live music.”)

When The Drugs Don’t Work was greeted by a sea of phone screens rather than the rapt attention that might have been expected, it was a sign of how badly things had sagged. Well, you’ve got to make your own entertainment somehow. Closing the main set, Come On displayed the raucous energy and attack which we had been missing, but it was too little, too late.

Only the final encore of Bittersweet Symphony brought the arena’s seated sections to their feet, as they raised cheers for what was essentially an extended tape loop accompanied by drums and whooshy effects pedals. Perhaps wisely, Ashcroft turned his mike towards the crowd for the final verse.

The Verve promised transcendence, but they delivered mediocrity. A disappointing night.

Set list:
This Is Music
Sonnet
Life’s An Ocean
Space And Time
Weeping Willow
On Your Own
Already There
The Rolling People
Velvet Morning
Let The Damage Begin
The Drugs Don’t Work
Come On
Encore:
History
Lucky Man
Bittersweet Symphony

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

Some performances are easy to capture in words, while others affect your senses and emotions in a way which goes beyond language. The Vancouver based rock band Black Mountain belong firmly in the latter category. Although lacking any obvious crowd-pleasing showmanship, the five band members radiated a quiet, studious intensity which, in a roundabout sort of way, gave them more genuine stage presence than your average NME-sanctioned posturing ninnies.

The music was rooted in classic late 1960s rock of the heavy, hairy variety, with distinct echoes of The Doors, Neil Young, and Jimi Hendrix – but rather than mining a straightforward retro seam, it had been filtered through the latter-day psychedelia of bands such as Ride, Spiritualized and the Stone Roses. Dense, swirling and intoxicating, it invited to you close your eyes and lose yourself in its epic sweep. (More pretentious publications than this one might use phrases such as “tonal landscapes” and “cathedrals of sound”, but Evening Post readers are sensible enough to see through that sort of guff.)

While material from the band’s forthcoming second album was well received, the loudest cheers were reserved for the killer riffing of Don’t Run Our Hearts Around, from their fine 2005 debut.

(Photograph of Black Mountain in Utrecht on December 2nd 2007 taken by stephanchrk, and reproduced under the terms of a Creative Commons non-commercial attribution licence.)

Labels: eveningpost, gigs, popmusic

For anyone who witnessed From The Jam’s triumphant performance at the Rescue Rooms in May, last night came with dangerously high expectations. Could original members Bruce Foxton and Rick Buckler, along with vocalist Russell Hastings and second guitarist Dave Moore, rekindle the magic once again, or was that springtime gig a unrepeatable fluke?

This time round, instead of blasting us with an opening salvo of classics, the band bravely eased us in with a couple of album tracks. For the first hour or so, they explored the best of their back catalogue, with an emphasis on the golden 1978-80 mid-period. Rather than